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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24616342">Solace</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account'>orphan_account</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Sanders sides angst verse [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Sanders Sides (Web Series)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood, Blood and Injury, Blood and Violence, Caring Logic | Logan Sanders, Comfort/Angst, Dark, Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders Needs a Hug, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Heavy Angst, Hurt Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders, Hurt/Comfort, Logic | Logan Sanders Is A Good Friend, Platonic Relationships, Self-Doubt, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Suicidal Thoughts, Swearing</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 09:54:06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,961</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24616342</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>All he needs is for the thoughts to stop, even for only a moment. Just a brief moment of solace to let him catch his breath. </p><p> </p><p>(Please heed the tags)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders &amp; Logic | Logan Sanders, Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders/Logic | Logan Sanders</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Sanders sides angst verse [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1675801</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>132</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Solace</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Please heed the tags, I do not want to trigger anyone.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It’s 2:36AM. </p><p>His breathing is erratic; it comes out in irregular, panicked wheezes that leave him feeling as though he’s suffocating. His hands scramble in the open air, struggling for something stable to grip onto. Unfocused, he glances down and catches sight of the skin on his forearm, and his hand darts towards it, fingernails digging into the surface. </p><p>
  <em>Dig deeper. You know you want to. </em>
</p><p>He tenses his hand, forcing the nails to break into the skin. They leave behind tiny, crescent shaped marks that are lined red with blood. It isn’t enough. </p><p>
  <em>Rip the skin. Take the whole lot off. </em>
</p><p>He wants to. He wants to tear at himself until he’s a mess of red blood. He wants to leave painful, gaping wounds all over himself, wounds that can’t be repaired. His whole body burns as though he’s dived into a deep pit of red-hot lava. But even destroying his skin wouldn’t fix the problem. He’s the issue; he is the thing that needs to be removed. </p><p>
  <em>So why haven’t you done it yet? Are you scared? </em>
</p><p>He’s scared. He’s terrified, so much so that he’s trembling where he sits, shivering like a leaf in a hurricane. All he wants, all he <em>needs</em> is for the thoughts to stop, even for only a few minutes. Just a brief moment of solace to let him catch his breath. It won’t come. The thoughts don’t stop, they just pour out in a never ending stream. Even when he thinks they’ve stopped, they haven’t. They’ve only quietened. </p><p>But right now he needs them to let up. It’s after midnight, and Remus has been awake for around 38 hours. It wasn’t his fault this time; he got an amazing idea for a new creation, of sorts. </p><p>Yesterday. That was a whole 24 hours ago, and he still can’t even bear to look at the notebook page. He knows it isn’t good enough. He’s been trying for what feels like an eternity; scribbling out lines, rewriting the same paragraph over and over. It’s useless. It isn’t going to be worthwhile. He can feel the others’ reactions already: a sneer from Roman, a hidden grimace from Patton, a feigned approval from Janus. He’d may as well set the whole book on fire and watch the words melt into the flames. At least then he’d get a little entertainment from it. </p><p>
  <em>Why are you even trying? Do you actually expect something good from yourself? </em>
</p><p>He was wrong to even try. He’s the embodiment of intrusive thoughts. Does he actually think Thomas is going to like any of his ideas? </p><p>
  <em>Thomas hates you. All of them do. </em>
</p><p>He knows. He feels the negative energy when he enters the room. He sees the frowns - it’s not as though the others try to conceal them - when he voices his mind. They all voice their thoughts, why can’t he? </p><p>
  <em>Your thoughts aren’t normal. Do you not remember? </em>
</p><p>Ah, how could he forget? He loves being reminded that he isn’t good enough. It does wonders for his already crumbling self esteem. </p><p>With bleary eyes, he dares to glance down at the notebook. His words are uneven and near-unreadable in their messy scrawl. The majority of the words have been scribbled out over the past few hours, leaving only a thin strip of ideas. </p><p>That’s all he has. It’s been nearly two days. He’s only left his room once in that time, and he certainly hasn’t slept. </p><p>
  <em>Not. Good. Enough. </em>
</p><p>Why did he think he could do anything better? </p><p>
  <em>So sad. </em>
</p><p>He wants it all to be over. He wants to go back in time, back to when Thomas’s creativity was still forming. He wants to be the good twin, the light side of creativity that all of the others love and praise. He wants to be gone, faded away until nothing is left. He just wants everything to stop. </p><p>
  <em>Do it. </em>
</p><p>He has to stop. It’s a harmful habit, even for him. But he needs it, just a little to take the edge off. It’s not like the others would care; he’s hurt himself in front of them to see what would happen, and all he got was a few disinterested stares and then the subject was changed. </p><p>
  <strong>
    <em>Do it. </em>
  </strong>
</p><p>He’s on his feet before he realises what he’s doing. His hands lunge for the box under his bed, painted with various crude images to keep the others away. Sitting back on the bed, he lifts the lid, reaching to grab the worn blade from inside. Without really thinking about it, he rips the blade across his forearm, the familiar sting greeting him as he does so. Not even a second later, blood begins to bead up from the wound, growing and growing before it tips over the side and trickles down his arm. One is never enough; he’s carved several more before he stops, carefully setting down his weapon. He lays himself on his stomach with his arm stretched over the side of the bed, watching with twisted fascination as the blood drips down his arm and splashes in tiny droplets onto the already stained carpet below it. There are red streaks across his wrist and a crazed grin on his face, but he barely notices. </p><p>The thoughts have quietened, at least for a while. It’s fucked up that he has to do something as extreme as this to shut them up, but it wouldn’t be the worst thing he’d ever done. He hates it. He hates the others - his brother, for being a perfect example of where he went wrong. He hates Patton, for the grimaces that he presents whenever Remus speaks. He hates Janus, for tricking him into thinking that maybe he can do something worthwhile, or have a positive impact at least once. He hates Logan, for reasoning with the others and getting them to see that there isn’t something wrong with Thomas, because at least when Thomas was afraid of him, he listened to what he had to say. Most of all, he hates himself. Because nothing he does is okay, and he’s messed up, and… and… and…</p><p>And someone is walking down the corridor. The footsteps are delicate, thoughtful, <em>light</em>. He yanks his sleeve down quickly. </p><p>“Remus?” Logan cautiously peeks his head around the door. </p><p>
  <em>Throw something at him. It’ll be funny. </em>
</p><p>He’s hurt the others enough. </p><p>“Are you still awake?” Logan continues, stepping inside after a moment. Remus settles his facial expression to match his usual mood. </p><p><br/>
“Yup!” is his shouted response. Logan glances over the area, catching sight of the scattered paper balls, the scribbly notebook, and the rumpled sheets on the bed, an obvious signal that he’s been up for a while. Remus shoves the box under the covers and sits in front of it before Logan can see it. </p><p>“Is everything alright?” Logan asks, a concerned look plastered on his face. </p><p>“I’m absolutely great!” he gives as a reply, laying back for emphasis. The hidden box presses into his back, and he relishes the ache it leaves behind. </p><p>“I don’t believe you. In fact, I’m certain such a lie would have summoned Janus, had he not been fast asleep.” accuses Logan. “What are you doing awake?” </p><p>“What are <em>you</em> doing awake?” Remus parrots, dodging the question. </p><p>“I was getting a glass of water. But this isn’t about me. Why are you awake?” Damn it; of course he would be smart enough to realise Remus’ tactic. </p><p>“Just finishing an idea. I’m almost done!” he promises. </p><p>“I see that.” Logan nods, glancing around the area to the discarded paper once again. Then his eyes widen, and Remus feels a sour surge of nerves run through him. </p><p>“Remus, you’re injured.” Logan whispers, his gaze fixated on Remus’ hand. Remus glances down at it, feigning surprise when he sees the lines of blood across it. </p><p>“Oh, it’s fake blood.” he lies. Logan studies his face. </p><p>“No, it isn’t.” Logan’s voice is near silent. He shuts the door and steps closer, sitting himself down on the edge of the bed, next to Remus’ feet. Remus resists the urge to kick him. </p><p>“What do you mean?” Remus questions, even though he doesn’t want the answer. He can feel where this is going, and he doesn’t like it. </p><p>“Roll up your sleeve.” Logan instructs in a steady voice. Remus bites at his lip, reaching a stalemate. If he refuses, Logan will know he has something to hide. If he does… </p><p>Looking the opposite direction to Logan, Remus gently lifts the sleeve. Instantly his fingertips become wet with blood, and he can feel it drip down onto his lap. </p><p>Logan doesn’t gasp, or shout, or pull a strange face. When Remus turns around again, Logan is studying the injured arm with an unreadable expression. </p><p>“They’re pretty.” Remus tries, desperate to evoke some kind of reaction. Logan looks up, meeting Remus’ eyes and scanning him as though he’s a block of text. Then he gently grabs his hand and pulls him up, wordlessly leading him into the bathroom. He says nothing even as Remus makes a particularly dirty joke about being dragged into the bathroom, even as he fills the sink with warm water and sits Remus down on the edge of the bathtub. It’s as though he’s acting on autopilot, almost like he’s done this before. The thought is… interesting. </p><p>Remus lets him help. He doesn’t protest, barely even speaks as Logan dips his wounded arm into the water and rinses it gently with a strange kind of soap. Logan warns him that it’s going to sting a bit, but Remus doesn’t care, letting himself focus on the pain rather than the fact that Logan is here, and knows. He watches as the logical side easily dries Remus’ arm and wraps it in a soft bandage, concealing the cuts from view. When he’s done he turns to the sink to drain the red-tinted water, leaving Remus to contemplate the bandage now covering his arm. </p><p>“Thanks…” Remus mutters, because it’s apparently polite to apologise after someone helps, and Logan didn’t have to do that. </p><p>“It’s no problem.” Logan responds, not turning away from the sink, which Remus is grateful for - he isn’t sure he can deal with eye contact right now. “Is there anything you want to talk about?” </p><p>Great, here comes the questions. Remus chews on his lip for a while, debating his answer. </p><p>“Can we talk tomorrow?” he manages. That’ll give him time to format his thoughts into a way that Logan can understand. </p><p>“Of course.” Logan finishes emptying the sink. He throws used tissues into the trash, before turning back to Remus. “You should spend the night in my room.” It’s more of an instruction than a command. </p><p>“Well, you’re very forward, aren’t you?” Remus smirks, raising his eyebrows.</p><p> Logan sighs. “It’s to ensure your safety.” </p><p>Remus agrees. He wasn’t planning on doing anything else tonight, but he knows Logan’s mind won’t be settled otherwise. He lets Logan guide him to his room, snapping himself into an acceptable pair of pyjamas as he’s suddenly overcome with fatigue. He lets out a loud yawn, not bothering to cover his mouth. Logan quickly directs him to the bed, going as far as to tuck him in slightly. He dims the lights and lets Remus stare at the ceiling. </p><p>Remus is sleepy. His eyes are partially closed as he stares upwards. He doesn’t know what’s going to happen tomorrow, but he’s trying his best not to think about it, conjuring up a story about murder in his head as a distraction. </p><p>It’s sometime around 4AM when Remus falls asleep. He knows tomorrow is going to be difficult, but he’s ready for it. Maybe things can get better from here. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>It's past 1AM and I'm sleep deprived, so apologies if there are any mistakes :P</p></blockquote></div></div>
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